Screw you, Max
by strife26bay12
Summary: Organize before they rise, eh? Good enough advice, but Masenak had a bone to pick with some of Brand's other ideas. How would he fare if it actually happened? Reviews appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Screw you, Max.

Organize before they rise, eh? Good enough advice, but Masenak had a bone to pick with some of Brand's other ideas. How would he fare if it actually happened?

Ibram Masenak was no soldier. Not yet at least. He was counting down the time until that day would arrive. The 18 year old, graduating senior had 128 days left. Then he'd get on a plane, headed for Ft. Knox and his combined Basic/Armor Training. Of course, even the best laid plans change.

The world was starting on fire. At 0001 Zulu time on March 22, everything changed. Ibram was at work; it was a slow night. He didn't notice anything amiss. Hell, his city didn't notice anything amiss. Once the restaurant was shut down for the night, Masenak went home, as per usual.

It was a somewhat precarious drive. The city was still in the process of cleaning up after the yearly flood. Parts of his road was diked, with gravel mounds crossing the pump tubes. Taking an accursedly low-bumpered Grand Am over a rutted hill was never fun. With Holy Diver in the background, he slowly picked his way home.

It was a nice enough house, with the river in the back yard and more than enough space for a family of four. Of course, one couldn't tell from the outside that half of the structure had been gutted after it had been submerged by the previous year's water. At the moment, the current year's water was slowly receding after a hearteningly low crest. No damage to the house.

Everything was dark, except for the lonely streetlight by the driveway. His home was in the middle of a trio of houses. Masenak pulled as far in the driveway as he could (the sandbags across the driveway hadn't been removed yet) and turned the car off, cutting the first verse of Carry on Wayward Son midway through. As he got out, he was greeted by a long line of meows. The black cat, Joey, had turned out to welcome Ibram home.

Giving his cat a greeting, he walked over and checked the ditch facing his house. The water had receded a bit since he had left for work. It was just about off of the stake his father had pounded in. Looks like they survived the year's flood.

Joey didn't particularly care to stop meowing, so he was unceremoniously picked up and carried to the door. Masenak set the cat down on the front step and let him inside. Masenak was Masenak to pretty much everyone he knew. His family used his first name and just about no one else. He wasn't sure what the cats called him. It was just him and the cat herd for the night. His parents and sister were visiting friends in the next state. He had been stuck home, having forgotten to ask for the time off.

Masenak's family had a full herd of five cats. Several of them, Joey included, accosted him for food as he walked inside. He put out two cans of food, spread over three plates, for them. Settling himself on the couch, he turned on the TV. A few hours of playing Kingdom Hearts later and considering the possibility of a KH Fan-fiction (how would heartless react to liberal amounts of firepower?), Masenak did something that would save his life.

He turned off his PlayStation and idly flicked to cable. There was a special news bulletin on, strange enough for a midnight. The camera crew had set up somewhere downtown. A mob was clashing against a storefront window. A haggard looking reporter talked about several reports of violence throughout the city and the text at the bottom read "City Police: Stay inside"

The camera jerkily swung to the right, then faced the night sky. The feed was replaced by a generic "please stand by" a moment later. Playing with the remote, Masenak was able to rewind a bit, stopping right before the camera had spun upwards. There was a man's face. It was torn up and covered with blood.

"Bloody hell . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

((Author's note: thanks for reading, reviews always appreciated. A lot of the problems that come from survival in a zombie situation are from uncertainty. To help reflect this, I've rolled a couple of dice to determine what happens in vague terms. I believe that the trade off in dramatic buildup is made worthwhile by the aspect of chance. Mind you, I had to reroll three times, the first few shots ended up with a single zombie in sight, plus the arrival of a pack of well armed buddies.))

Masenak turned the volume on the TV down to a whisper, turned off the light on the end table, and got up. He took five steps to the back door. The family shotgun was propped up in the corner, accessible in the event that a raccoon or squirrel needed to be ended. Somewhat panicky, his hand found the loose shells on the ledge. Masenak silently coached himself on loading the weapon.

"Okay Masenak, grab the four buck rounds. Load two of them. Hit the pump safety, pump once. One round in the chamber now. Add one more under the barrel. Put the safety on. Damn. Is the red bar safe or on safe? I'll go for red bar on.

"No more of the 4 buck rounds here. Half a box each of four and five bird. Are they reliable kills? Fuck, I don't know . . . I'm wearing khakis, no real space to carry many shells. Three in each pocket? Okay, looks like I can fit a fair few more. Looks like if I fill all my pockets, I can carry them all. Seven each in my front pockets, four each in the back."

Awkwardly getting the shotgun into port arms, Masenak grabbed a Battle Dress Uniform jacket. He had a closet full of BDU's; between the sets from each of his parent's time in the service and a set for his own JROTC, the numbers got somewhat excessive. He pulled the one with a 1st armored patch and a butter-bar.

Being a crazy survivalist to some extent, Masenak had a plan for a zombie invasion. It wasn't much of a plan, more of a rough outline. It gave him something to focus his nervous energy on. He transferred the shells to the more easily accessible. Next step was to give himself a bug-out point. He carefully looked out the front door, the big metal ladder was in the driveway. Not wanting to expose himself, he dead-bolted the door and moved to the garage. It was a light, wooden, small, and rickety ladder, but still an absolute bastard to manhandle one-handed, while keeping a heavy shotgun somewhat up with the other (Arnie he was not). Although he banged it against a few walls, necessitating some soft swearing, he finally got it on the upper part of the deck. If need be, the roof would be his Alamo.

With that finished, he moved throughout his house, closing all the drapes, and confirming all the lights were out. Having a plan really was a nice thing, Masenak knew where most of his important gear was. Annoyingly enough, his normally prepacked bug out bag had been emptied a few weeks previously (he had needed the assault bag for a trip). Which left him to try to assemble everything once again. After a bit of thought, he chose to place his supply dump in the kitchen, it was quite close to the deck door with its ladder to the roof.

With a spot chosen, Masenak tried to remember his priorities. **Priority #1: Defense. A human can survive for a couple of minutes with their jugular torn open. Avoid having your jugular torn open**. Even in the darkness of the house, Masenak found that his eyes were adjusted well enough to see. He crept down to his room, most of his supplies were stashed in a plastic chest there. Duct taped down canned food. Carrying the whole thing would be a bit of a pain though. Impossible while carrying the shotgun one-handed (it wasn't a light weapon by any means, and Masenak wasn't a rifle spinner). Masenak managed to use the strap from his laptop satchel and some twine to get a workable sling. Being a paranoid survivalist, Masenak took little time in pulling out the assorted hidden weapons in his room. He kept a survival knife belted to the head of his bed, a bowie taped under his desk, and his .22 was behind the dresser. He threw on a belt for the knives and a small pouch (formerly for a multitool) for the few dozen rounds. A half-full box of .22's went in his pocket. He grabbed his empty assault bag from the floor and threw in his flashlight and a few pairs of socks.

He moved the relatively small load to the kitchen table. He then went to grab the big gun. In his regrettably absent father's closet was a Remington 700, scoped. It had been described as "overkill for deer hunting." The bullets were comfortingly large, but there were only a half-dozen of them

All in all, he was packing a goodly amount of firepower. Of course, he'd be needing it shortly enough.


End file.
